The World's Greatest Detective
by ptarn
Summary: Sometimes it only takes one word or gesture to change everything. You'd think the world's greatest detective would've picked up on any of the clues that signaled this impending change. Guess again. Yep, Sherlock's as clueless as they come, the poor dear.
1. Just a Question

**Chapter 1: Just a question**

It had been a tiring day, no doubt about that. Which is why, when Sherlock and John returned home, John wished the still-excited detective a good night, brushed his teeth, undressed himself, slipped into his bed and was asleep the moment his head hit the pillow.

At first Sherlock hadn't even registered the fact that John wishing him a good night meant that the doctor was actually going to sleep, so for the next twenty minutes he kept on pacing around the room, recapping their entire day as if the good doctor hadn't been by his side every step of the way. Only when the tall detective asked John about his thoughts on a certain detail of the day – it still puzzled him why Lestrade had given both of them a curious look when they'd burst out laughing the moment Greg had mentioned 'both of them would never see the queen' if they kept behaving like that – and didn't receive an answer, did Sherlock realize John _had really meant to go to sleep_ after wishing him a good night. This stopped him dead in his tracks, because, now that he was actively thinking about John, another question, a question of a very different nature that had been plaguing him for over a week, suddenly popped into Sherlock's head. And, being who he was, this question needed to be answered _right now_.

John was half-way into his first dream of the night when Sherlock walked into his room, grabbed the desk chair, sat on it and waited. Waited for John to wake up, so he could ask his question. For someone with such a massive intellect Sherlock still didn't grasp a lot of the most basic human interactions. Which is why he didn't think it was strange at all to expect John to wake up merely because he wanted him to. Of course that didn't happen. John was blissfully unaware of the fact he was being watched, dreaming of being back in high school and seeing friends whose faces he couldn't even remember.

Sherlock watched and waited. Watched. Waited. Until another twenty minutes had passed and he'd had enough. His right hand reached for the sleeping doctor, poked him gently in the shoulder and he said, in a clear voice:  
"John?"

The poke did nothing to disturb John's dreams, but the voice, however, did. This was the first clue the world's greatest detective overlooked completely. John stirred and his breathing quickened, but he didn't wake up yet. Sherlock waited for a moment, then repeated the poke and said, in a slightly louder voice:  
"John?"  
Again, it wasn't the poke, but the voice and, more to the point, what that voice said and how it said it, which made John stir. He groaned, pulled the sheet tighter around his shoulders, but in spite of this he was already on his way to waking up. Again Sherlock waited, a bit longer this time, but when he heard John's breathing steadying once more, he poked, harder and said, with a little bit of a whine in his voice:  
"Jooohn?"

That got the more-or-less sleeping again doctor's attention. He began to stir in earnest and eventually opened his eyes and glared, yes, _glared_ at Sherlock.  
"What is it now?"

John's mumbled question was barely audible, but Sherlock heard it any way. He stood up, pulled the chair closer and sat down again.

"What do you feel when you… like someone?"

That certainly wasn't a question John had expected to hear, especially not at this ungodly time of night, and he blinked once, twice, three times, before he sat up, scratched his head and took a long look at Sherlock. He knew better than to answer right away, so instead he asked the great detective a question of his own.  
"What do you mean when you say _like_ someone?"

That question took Sherlock by surprise. He hadn't expected John to ask him to clarify this unfamiliar feeling, especially since he'd been trying to avoid analyzing this alien emotion with a mind that was unaccustomed to thinking about such _ordinary_ issues. But, because it was John who asked the question, Sherlock felt he was obliged to at least try to put into words what had prompted him to come to John with this particular subject at this particular time of night.  
"Well… It's like…"

A myriad of possible explanations bloomed in Sherlock's overactive mind. He flipped through them, like normal people would flip through a magazine in search for just the right article to read, until he came across what he thought to be an accurate enough description of his current predicament.

"I like my violin. I'd be upset if something were to happen to it. In fact, I've been, in the past. Upset. When Mycroft had inadvertently damaged it and had subsequently sent it off to be repaired. I felt… lost. I wanted to compose, or to play music, and I couldn't and I felt frustrated, restricted, just… unhinged. And, and it's the same with this person. When, when eh, that person's gone, I feel… There's a hole my stomach, well, not a real one, that would be impossible, 'cause then I'd be dead and clearly I'm not so what I'm trying to say is-"  
John held up his hand as he hid his grin by pretending to stifle a yawn with his other hand.  
"Alright, that's enough. I get the picture. That sounds an awful lot like liking someone to me. Are you actually telling me, in your own, slightly excentric way, that before you met this person you've _never_ felt like this about anyone else before? In your entire life?"

The slight tone of disbelief in John's voice confused Sherlock. Never before had he thought about this specific aspect of the social conventions the society around him was based on. His entire family had never been overly explicit in expressing their feelings towards each other. It wasn't until Sherlock had actually seen Mycroft go out with a woman that he'd realized his family could harbour emotions for persons other than family, and that these feelings differed from the carefully cultivated emotional detachment the Holmes family seemed to excel at. It wasn't that any of the relationships he'd observed, both from watching Mycroft and other members of his family, had ever lasted for more than two years, but still, they'd been clear evidence of the theory Sherlock had been constructing over the years that he was, indeed, the odd one out. He'd been the one person in their family who had never even felt remotely attracted to, or even interested in, anyone else but himself and his family. In that order. After that he'd accepted the simple fact that in a group of people with a distinctly different outlook on life from the majority of humanity, bound together by blood, he'd been the exception to the rule. Which was the sole reason, pure and simple, for him to completely ignore this particular aspect of human interaction in regards to himself.

And now the good doctor, a man Sherlock had only known for less than a year, gave him food for thought, merely by being quite genuinely puzzled at this revelation. Right then and there Sherlock decided it would take far too long to explain why this question had taken him by surprise, if John had even noticed this, instead opting for acknowledging John's inadvertently, but quite astute, placed proverbial finger on the proverbial sore spot.

"Yes. I believe I am."

"Sherlock… Really? Not once? No secret crushes, no unrequited loves? Not ever?"

For some inexplicable reason that Sherlock couldn't fathom John's lips had curved into the faintest of smiles after the detective's admission of this fact. Also, the disbelief had been replaced with something that, to Sherlock, was remotely akin to _amusement_. However, he wasn't sure, due to another very simple and well-hidden fact. Because, quite simply put, there were certain things in life he would never admit to. Being unable to 'read' John as accurately and easily as he could every other person – except for maybe Mycroft, but in that case his blurred vision could be attributed to them being related – was one of those things. Being wrong, of course, was another. Disliking pets in general was a third and why was his mind going off on another tangent in the middle of what he perceived to be a very important conversation?

"No."

Again Sherlock thought about adding an explanation, but, like he'd done before, decided against it. John stayed silent after this crystal clear negation on Sherlock's behalf. His faint smile, however, didn't fade. If anything it became a bit more pronounced, which was the second clue that the man who considered himself to have one of the greatest minds ever known to man – if not _the_ greatest mind, he wasn't exactly known for his modesty – missed in less than an hour's time.

"Right. Well, then I can imagine this must all be a bit… confusing for you. Truth be told, I'd sort of assumed you were not interested in those kinds of things at all. That you were, as they call it, asexual. Can't blame a guy for thinking that, can you?"

Of course Sherlock couldn't blame John for thinking that. In fact, Sherlock could or would _never_ blame John for thinking anything about anything in regards to Sherlock, unless it would involve certain things that the lanky detective had been wondering about for the past few weeks. So he shook his head and tried to figure out if John's question was a rhetorical one which merited no answer on his part or if it was a question that required him to open his mouth and actually reply. Luckily, the ex-army doctor was as well-versed in 'reading' Sherlock as Sherlock wasn't in 'reading' John and thus saved the slightly confused and _supposedly_ superior human specimen the embarrassment of trying to figure this out.

"That's what I thought. Does this answer your question or will you insist on keeping me awake for at least another hour while we discuss the finer points of 'liking' someone, which will inevitably lead to me falling asleep at work, probably with my face on my keyboard, which in turn will cause me to go home after another unproductive day with a row of squares etched on my forehead?"  
John's lips curved into a distinct smile as he said this, a sign that even Sherlock, who'd been completely ignorant of any other signs that John had displayed earlier that night, couldn't miss and which told him that John was teasing him. Well, at least as far as the truth can be used to tease someone, because Sherlock knew for a fact that this scenario had taken place at least three times in the previous month. Oh yes, our precious detective knew and felt quite guilty about him being the cause of John's sleep-related problems at work.

"No, I'll… I'll leave you to it. It being, well, you sleeping and being all awake tomorrow, and… Thanks. Thank you, John. Good night."  
Sherlock stood up and returned the chair to its original place, but not before John, with the keen eyes of a battlefield surgeon, trained to see details even under conditions that would make regular surgeons balk at the idea of even attempting to cut open a wounded person, saw a faint blush on his flat mate's features as the light of the lantern outside his window fell across Sherlock's face for barely a moment. As the older man rested his head on his pillow once more and pulled his sheets around him, the smile never left his face, not even when he fell sound asleep.


	2. On all matters edible

**Chapter 2: On all matters edible**

Weeks passed after Sherlock's unexpected nighttime visit, until one night, after dinner, something happened. Something so out of the ordinary, something so small, yet so earth-shatteringly significant, that it would literally change _everything_. Or, well, it would change everything concerning Sherlock and John and their life at 221B Baker Street. This small thing happened after a particularly eventful but very satisfying day, during the course of which the world's only consulting detective and his faithful sidekick _slash_ bodyguard _slash_ friend _slash_ private medical examiner – and let's not go into the other possibilities that less savoury magazines have come up with, please choose whichever role you deem appropriate at any given time – had solved not one, but two cases, one of which involved the high-profile kidnapping of the son of a well-known industrialist. Lestrade had been very grateful for their help, as he always was, Mycroft had _texted_ Sherlock to thank him for the adequately swift closure of this particular case, and – much to everyone's surprise – even Donovan had managed to sort of snarl a 'thank you' in their general direction.

Regardless to say that the two men had returned home in an extremely happy state of mind. John had suggested that this particularly fine day merited opening the bottle of champagne another client had given them a few weeks back and Sherlock, who normally wasn't inclined to celebrate the wrapping up of a case in any sort of way other than closing the case file, agreed, thus surprising John for the second time that day. After they'd emptied the bottle, a feat during which John for once had talked more than Sherlock, who for once had seemed much more interested in listening to John's voice instead of to his own, the good doctor had asked his good friend to set the table while he'd occupy himself with preparing their celebratory meal.

Sherlock had obliged and as John was busy cooking their dinner the energetic detective more than made up for his previous silence by continously rambling on about how everything had come together so neatly today, about how he'd been on a roll, how dismayed Donovan and Anderson had looked and suddenly he managed to surprise John for the third time in a row by admitting that he couldn't have done it without his friend's help.  
"I'm sure you could have, Sherlock," John said while stirring the sauce for the pasta.  
"Nonsense. You either say that because you try to be polite or because it's what over thirty years of socially acceptable behaviour have taught you to say. You know me, John. I'm not the kind of person to compliment people on a regular basis, so when I do, I expect you to not just be grateful for it, but to _own_ the damned compliment. So, go ahead… _Own_ it, doctor Watson. Come on. You know you want to."

John couldn't help but smile at Sherlock's unique way of trying to get his point across without sounding too demanding, which was always a feat when it came to the younger of the two Holmes brothers. After meeting Mycroft for the first time he'd expected the older Holmes to have more of a problem with being unable to order people around, but Mycroft seemed quite capable of merely suggesting or asking for things. At times John wondered if that was simply due to Mycroft's slight advantage in age or if it had to do with the fact that Mycroft dealed with stubborn people on a regular basis. Surely living with Sherlock had given the man the patience of a saint. John's smile widened, secure as he was in the knowledge that his friend couldn't see it. So what did that say about him living with Sherlock for almost half a year now?  
"Well, alright then… Thank you. And… you're welcome."  
John was right: Sherlock couldn't see the smile, but he could damn well _hear_ it in the doctor's voice, which in turn made the detective smile. In a rare display of something closely resembling empathy Sherlock let John have his moment before he dove head-first into the remainder of the day's recap, unburdened by the fact that the only other person present had been right beside him the entire time and could probably even expand on the story in certain places, especially when Sherlock had gone off on one of his characteristic monologues or his trademark wild dashes.

By now John, being used to his flat mate's almost instinctual need to go over recent events at least once while in the relative safety of their home, settled into what he'd secretly come to call his 'yes dear'-mode. This mode consisted of him sort of listening to Sherlock and either nodding, uttering the occasional 'yes' or make a variety of noncommittal sounds that could've meant anything, like the word 'aloha'. Sherlock either didn't notice or didn't mind this at all, because he'd never commented on it in any way. To John the latter option sounded like the more sensible one, since Sherlock – who was, after all, the world's _only_ consulting detective – should've surely noticed it when most of the doctor's answers or agreements were nothing more than vague sounds or words.

While John busied himself with the pasta and the sauce, Sherlock gradually fell silent, the breaks between his sentences growing larger until, after one particularly large gap of non-sound, he mentioned Donovan's odd behaviour one more time and shut his mouth. He placed his elbows on the table, folded his hands and rested his face against them, thus obscuring his unusually motionless mouth, and shifted his attention from listening to his own voice – an activity he'd not only grown fond of ever since he'd heard himself speak for the first time, but which he had perfected to the exclusion of even _hearing_ other people talk when he opened his mouth – to watching John perform his magic. Because magic it was, at least to Sherlock, to see his flat mate turn mundane ingredients into something that was not just edible, but downright mouth-wateringly tasty.

It had always fascinated Sherlock to no end how cooking a meal that didn't give one a bad case of indigestion – at best – was a skill that kept eluding him, even though his understanding of even the most basic chemical processes that someone employed to gain a result that wasn't met with wrinkled noses and utterances of disgust, was far above and beyond that of almost every other person on the planet. In fact, in watching John prepare their meals, Sherlock saw nothing short of a miracle, especially since the good doctor had exhibited a near-instinctual grasp of exactly which flavours suited the finicky genius particularly well.

And finicky Sherlock was. Oh yes. If John had asked Mycroft about Sherlock's eating habits he would've been blown away by the sheer amount of tricks that had had to be used in the Holmes' household over the course of many, many years to at least try to get the benjamin of the family to at least put something in his mouth – other than the usual things Sherlock put in his mouth, which consisted of non-edible foreign objects such as pebbles, leaves, grass, dirt, dust, insects and even animal excrements – and _just try it for heaven's sake!_

To anyone else who hadn't had the (mis)fortune of having had to put up with Sherlock's downright refusal to even so much as give any kind of food the time of day – which would've been a strange sight indeed, although both Mycroft and John would never put it past Sherlock to have tried this at least once in his life – the problem would seem trivial, since one would kindly suggest to just stuff all sorts of digestable things into the man's mouth when he was – oh lord, the irony! – _consumed _by yet another case, another mystery. After all, when Sherlock's brain was for the most part occupied with fitting all the pieces of a tantalizing puzzle together, it seemed to simply forget it had actually come into the possession of a body since egg and sperm had met, and should supply said body with a sufficient amount of fuel to not only keep the body, but itself going as well.

However, Sherlock wouldn't be the Sherlock we've all come to know and love (yes, _love_, darn it, because at this moment in time we will kindly pretend he doesn't have any insufferable character traits and habits which would cause most sane people to either run away screaming or plot his death in all sorts of creative ways) if something as relatively straight-forward as being fed various kinds of food during such periods was exactly that: straight-forward. Of course it's not straight-forward, because even though Sherlock's mind tended to drift to places most people can only ever hope to glimpse on a particularly good day, his taste buds and stomach were always preoccupied with merely one thing: to make sure no icky-tasting food stuff got past the detective's amazingly flexible and, some might add delectable, lips.

Which is why, due to all the aforementioned reasons, or, well, it actually is just one reason, John had taken it upon himself from the first time he'd set foot in their shared kitchen to be not just the resident doctor but also the resident cook. He'd theorized, and quite rightly so, that virtually anything he would create in that kitchen would outstrip Sherlock's culinary 'experiments' by lightyears in terms of both being enjoyable – for himself – and being tasteful enough for his lanky friend to at least sit down at the table and share the meal. To John's – and, as Sherlock would only ever admit to himself after three months, to Sherlock's – delight he'd not only turned out to be an accomplished cook, but his meals were met with such enthusiasm that Sherlock actually stopped working on a case and sat down to eat whenever John called him.

No matter how engrossed Sherlock was in his work, the words "dinner's ready!" always found their way straight into his brain and thus directed his body to get its butt off the chair and make its way to the source of those delicious scents. However – and this was something none other than Mycroft had observed during his sparse visits – this only occurred when those exact words were _spoken by John_. It was a small clue, but a clue nonetheless, and Mycroft had been unable to keep one of the corners of his mouth from twitching ever so slightly as he'd mulled over the possible implications of this little tidbit of information, one which Sherlock had failed and continued to fail to pick up on.


End file.
